Home
by slam a revolving door
Summary: [Oneshot] 'They were nice shoes – not comfortable, per se, but stylish all the same. Pointy, heeled and green – nothing like anything Katya ever wore … which perhaps had made it more obvious to his wife.' [Wilson]


**Disclaimer:** I do not own House MD.

**A/N:** This story takes place pre-infarction, around the time of Wilson's first wife.

Home

"_Is this home, is this where I should learn to be happy? Never dreamed that a home could be dark and cold …" – _Home; Beauty and the Beast.

The door slammed, and Wilson was left standing in the middle of the hallway staring at that treacherous pair of shoes. They were _nice _shoes – not comfortable, per se, but stylish all the same. Pointy, heeled and green – nothing like anything Katya ever wore … which perhaps had made it all the more glaringly obvious to his wife. Not that any of this mattered anymore – really, why was he focusing on these trivialities? And why was he so stupid as to conduct an affair in the communal space of his own home? He kicked the shoes half-heartedly, and dropped into a chair, burying his head in his hands. He was _so _screwed … His mobile rang, and he picked it up.

"House, I'm not in the mood," Wilson snapped into the phone, hearing the low chuckle at the other end in response. Standing up, mobile still held to his ear, he strode into the living room and settled himself down comfortably on the sofa, flicking on the television.

"Let me guess, she found out about your friendly nurse friend from Paediatrics," his friend said smugly.

"Uh huh …" Wilson grunted, keeping his attention on the television, where a young teenage girl was plucking the petals of a flower. _He loves me, he loves me not … He loves me not. _"How do you know anyway?" he asked detachedly, watching the teenage girl dissolve into tears. _Gee, it's just a flower …_

"She showed up at my door asking to borrow money to get a cab to her parents' place. You owe me," House said nonchalantly.

"Mm …" Wilson replied non-committally. "Can you mock me some other time? When I said 'I'm not in the mood' I really did mean that I – wasn't – in – the – mood."

House was silent, and the dial tone sounded in Wilson's ear. Sighing, he tossed the mobile on the coffee table with more vehemence than he intended. It slid across the polished surface and hit Katya's favourite vase – an inane, overly-decorated expensive porcelain piece of clutter. _Crap. _He watched it teeter on the edge of coffee table with a detached horror and interest, observing as it tried to decide if it wanted to fall or not. Gravity won out in the end, as he knew it would, and it splintered against the cold marble floor, shattering into millions of tiny pieces. _Crap, crap, crap, crap … _he thought, horror overriding apathy.

Hurrying into the kitchen to look for a dustpan, he tripped over a box in the middle of the floor. Cursing softly to himself, then louder as he realised that Katya wasn't here to censor him, Wilson picked up the box and lifted the lid, his breath catching in his throat as he realised what its contents were. Photographs – old photographs. Lifting them out of their box, he settled himself down on the kitchen floor, ignoring the warnings of how clichéd he was being.

There were only three photographs in the box, and they all featured him. Wilson picked the first one up and stared at it. A young man – himself – stared back, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere above Wilson's head. His arm was draped casually around a woman, his then girlfriend. Katya. Both looked happy, and Katya's image didn't glare at him resentfully or resignedly, unlike her current counterpart. Wilson felt a tinge of guilt. Did he put that bitterness in his wife's eyes?

He placed the photograph on the floor and turned to the next one. Him and House – a younger, less scruffy House. Both of them were laughing – probably making fun of the person behind the camera, their easy camaraderie obvious. Smiling, he laid the photograph down. Wilson was happy for House – he had found Stacy at a paintball tournament, and found a sort of satisfaction that Wilson was sure would last. Unlike his marital 'happiness'.

The last photograph he picked up sent a shiver up his spine. His father smiled up at him – the smarmy, pleased grin that he presented to the world. Tracing his fingers over the man's face, Wilson shuddered, remembering his bitter thoughts of so long ago. He had refused to become his father, yet … the apple never fell far from the tree, did it?

He opened his mouth and let the old words fall. They slipped from his mouth easily, but there was no truth behind them anymore. "I refuse to become my father …"

Who was he kidding? He had lied, cheated, betrayed his wife …

He _was _his father.


End file.
